


Couldn't Even Hold A Candle To This

by Yasuo_Karada



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Good End, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasuo_Karada/pseuds/Yasuo_Karada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're later told you were the happiest baby anyone had ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't Even Hold A Candle To This

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Noiz. You deserve to have a joyous day and so many more to come. The "chapters" are the numbers in German, 1-22 with the final being a common way of wishing someone a happy birthday.
> 
> *WARNING*
> 
> As this is meant to take place in the canon universe, there are some things that need to be addressed before you continue reading. The following take place: child abuse, underage sex/prostitution, implied child prostitution/sexual abuse. This is a work of fiction based on the original fictional source and I in no way, shape, or form condone any sort of sexual abuse (especially conducted on children).
> 
> It never states when exactly Noiz had gotten used to other people using his body, but I can imagine it happened when it was still fairly young, before he moved to Midorijima.

It's the first day, the first breath of life, and the sudden brightness of the new world scares you so much you start to cry. You don't feel the softness of the towels that clean your body of strange stuff, nor the warmth of your mother's bosom when she holds you tightly, gently against her. Eventually you calm, and you register her smile as joy; somehow that joy transfers over to you, and you stop crying.  
  
You're later told you were the happiest baby anyone had ever seen.

 

* * *

_eins_

  
  
One year later and you're a firecracker, having gained the ability to walk which bordered on running and already speaking a few words while not being able to fully understand those spoken to you. You're sat down at the table with a giant cake donning pale green frosting and a giant '1' candle alight, surrounded by grown-ups you recognize as friends of _Mama_ and _Vati_ as well as kids from your preschool.  
  
“ _Alles Gute zum Geburtstag_!” You're not quite sure what it means, but the happiness in the room is enough to make you giggle and bounce so hard in your seat _Mama_ has to catch you when you slip off.  
  


* * *

_zwei_

  
  
The second time you see such a large cake, the '1' is replaced with a '2' and there are fewer kids at your birthday party; you haven't made a lot of friends at school because nobody likes to play with you, but that's okay. _Mama_ and _Vati_ are here and so is this big cake.

  
“Wilhelm,” _Mama_ coos softly after she helps you blow out the candles. “We have a surprise for you.”  
  
“You're going to be a big brother.”

 

* * *

_drei_

  
  
By this time, you've learned to read enough of the German language to understand that this cake reads ' _Happy Third Birthday, Wilhelm!_ ' despite the curly writing, as well as the cards your grandparents and your parents' associates have sent bearing good wishes. _Mama_ is holding your baby brother, Theodor, who's quiet and staring in awe at the cake; _Vati_ was too busy with work, like he has been lately, so he couldn't stay home with you today.  
  
“Happy birthday, Wilhelm,” she grins before continuing with, “now make a wish and blow out the candles.”  
  
You wish _Vati_ wasn't so busy all the time; you like celebrating your birthday as a family.

 

* * *

_vier_

  
  
“Wilhelm, let your brother help you blow out the candles,” Mama chides softly, carefully holding your little brother up next to you. You've come to like Theo; he's quiet but he seems to listen to every word you say (regardless of whether you say it correctly or not) and he loves to play with you. You shuffle over in your seat and together blow out your '4' candle, though he doesn't quite seem to grasp the concept of blowing and ends up getting drool all over one corner of the cake.  
  
“Ew, that's gross, Theo!” You giggle, scooping up the piece of cake in your tiny hand to shove it into his face. It doesn't feel as sticky as it's always tasted.

 

* * *

_fünf_

 

You remain silent in your seat as _Mama_ , your brother, and what few kids from your class decided to come sing you ' _Happy Birthday_ ', your fingers idly picking at the scabs on your palms under the table. It doesn't hurt when you tear one off; it never does, and as much as you want to show _Mama_ that you're okay, you don't want to get scolded again. When prompted, you blow out the candles and sit there quietly like a good boy as _Mama_ slices the cake.  
  
After cake and presents, you go outside to play with the other kids. It's the last time you do.  
  


* * *

_sechs_

  
  
By the time you're turning six, you've acknowledged that you're different from the other kids in that you can't seem to feel it when something was supposed to hurt. You had always thought it was supposed to be like this, but the party the year prior had shown you otherwise. The other kids stopped acknowledging you at school and now, it's just you, _Mama_ , and Theo. _Mama_ 's taken extra care to make sure Theo is sitting at the other side of the table. You blow out your candles alone.  
  


* * *

_sieben_

  
  
For the first time, you're spending your birthday by yourself. It's dark and the room is still a bit scary, but you've grown a little used to it by now. Your eyes are still blurry from the crying and you can somehow tell you're tired from it, but it doesn't stop the sniffling and urge to cry again.

  
The sound of something slipping under the door draws your attention, and from the light of the hallway poking through, you can see it's a picture drawn sloppily in crayon, vaguely resembling you and your brother at the table with a green cake way too big for the table. You reach over to pick it up, and the tears fall again as you hear your little brother's voice muffled through the door; you grip the picture too tightly and it creases as he tries to wish you a happy birthday.

 

* * *

 

_acht_

  
  
It's 23:59 the night before. You're waiting by the door for your nightly rendezvous with Theo, but he's oddly late; the clock has just turned midnight when you hear the familiar shuffle of tiny feet on the other side of the door.  
  
“ _Bruder_ , are you still awake?” You respond affirmatively. “Happy birthday, Wim.”  
  
He manages to slide a cookie – chocolate chip, your favorite – under the door along with another crayon drawing.

 

* * *

 

_neun_

  
  
You've been spending your days locked in this room reading on other languages and whatever manual Theo could manage to sneak to you. You've gotten good at tinkering with smaller things like clocks and any electronics the maids would bring to distract you. You're in the middle of fiddling with an old TV that's recently died when your modified clock suddenly goes off with a, “Ping-pong-ping! Today is June thirteenth,” upon striking midnight.  
  
You stop what you're doing and stare at the clock incredulously, amazed that you even lost track of time. It seemed to stand still here.

 

* * *

 

_zehn_

  
  
Reading manuals has long bored you and you've grasped enough of both the German and Japanese typically spoken in your house, as well as a bit of English, to speak and read them well enough to get by. You've repaired and modified every piece of technology you've been able to get your hands on, now gathering dust from lack of use. Theo doesn't come by anymore, not since he was caught trying to open the door last month.  
  
You curl up into yourself on your bed, clinging the stuffed rabbit you had gotten as a present for your fourth birthday tightly against your chest. It's missing an eye and there's a stitch in its side that's threatening to burst, but it's the only thing bringing you any solace.

 

* * *

 

_elf_

  
  
You're sitting on your bed, leaning back against the wall and staring out the window when you get the idea: there's nothing here left for you so why should you stay?  
  
Hopping off your bed, you scramble for the window only to realize that the lock keeping the bars in place are a lot stronger than you anticipated and can't be broken no matter how much force you use. Escape won't be so easy, it seems.  
  
The familiar weight of tears returns, but this time out of frustration.

 

* * *

_zwölf_

 

It's taken all this time, but you've finally managed to pick the lock and what better timing? With the clothes on your back and the money you've saved up from the cards sent to you from past birthdays and Christmases, you swing open the bars and unlock the window, forcing it up so you can squeeze through. You thank whatever god may exist that the room happened to be at the back of the house where there are trees right outside, and climb down.  
  
Freedom, you decide, is the best birthday gift.  
  


* * *

_dreizehn_

  
  
“Hey, kid. You all by yourself?” You look over at the man leaning against the brick wall. You recognize him, at first only in passing but lately he'd been hanging around the area of town you frequent. You never really got good vibes from him.  
  
“What's it to you?”  
  
“You look hungry. I can feed you, if you do me a favor.”  
  
Your stomach growls, but despite that, the look he's giving you doesn't feel _right_. So, you run.  


* * *

_vierzehn_

  
  
There's a group of fellow misfits, so far away from home you wonder if you're even still in the same country, that you've become acquainted with. You got into a fight with one of them a long while back but they were so impressed with how you held your own they wanted you to be a part of their circle. They did things you were raised not to, lived a lifestyle that didn't seem terribly healthy or ideal yet still attracted you to them like a moth to a flame.  
  
“Hey kid,” one asks you out of the blue while you're all hanging out behind an old building, drinking some lagers. “You ever heard of this game called Rhyme?”  
  


* * *

_fünfzehn_

  
  
Rhyme in Germany is fun by itself, but the _real_ action, the part that makes you feel truly alive when you're getting your ass kicked because of simulated pain, takes place in its homeland: Japan. You're too young for a job (another year, if your calculations on the date are correct), but that's too far out. The opportunity for money arises one night when you're out walking around trying to gather your thoughts, and some stranger decides you're pretty enough to ask for a favor in exchange for currency.  
  
This time around, you cave, and when it's all over you walk away with about 88 euros and a disgusting taste in your mouth.

 

* * *

 

_sechzehn_

  
  
Japan is so different from Germany, this island of Midorijima in particular. It's the birthplace of Rhyme and where the top players reside. You've been so busy chasing other players that once again time has slipped by you. It's only by chance that you happen to notice the date on your piece-of-shit coil.  
  
Ah, this is the date of the official launch of the game.  
  


* * *

_siebzehn_

 

You leave their place while they're still sleeping, having slipped yourself an extra 1,000-yen bill as interest for all the time wasted. You suppose it wasn't all bad, though; you received scratches deep enough you could actually _feel_.

  
On the way home, your stomach growls and you swing by the local pizza place to grab a box to-go. You've grown bored of everything on this island; everything, except for pizza and Rhyme, two constants always welcomed.  
  
Everything else, though, has dissolved into a numbness that affected your own mind.  
  


* * *

_achtzehn_

  
  
You're approached in the middle of eating your pizza at your joint by a small group of guys, all of whom you've recognized as players you've defeated in the past. They pitch an idea about forming a gang, a _strong_ gang, and they want you to help form that gang since you're a hell of a player and you always seem to know where the best matches are going to be. You brush it off with a bored explanation of how all you do is calculate where Usui is going to show next, and it's only when they mention that some people are willing to pay big money for that kind of information do you start seriously paying attention.  
  


* * *

_neunzehn_

  
  
Another victory for your team, after pissed off Rhymer who demands a rematch. Whatever. You're about to walk away to move on when the guy mumbles something about how he “ain't nothin' special. Yer good, but yer not too good I'm still conscious. Not like that _freak_.”  
  
Just what the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?  
  
You stay behind and listen, curious.  
  


* * *

_zwanzig_

 

You step into the shop and have to hold yourself from grinning childishly at the head of blue and the face it belongs to gawking at you with surprise.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and you show him the large sack of candy you brought with you.  
  
Birthdays are about making the person of honor happy, right? You had decided some unknown amount of time ago, after the events of Platinum Jail, that nothing would make you happier than pleasing this man in front of you, the one who gave you your life to restart.  
  


* * *

_einundzwanzig_

  
  
“Happy birthday!” Aoba cheers as he clinks your glasses of wine together. “You're finally legal to drink, brat, so don't be afraid to indulge a little.”  
  
You only chuckle and shake your head, setting your own glass down as you reach over the table to grab onto his hand. He sputters something about having no shame in a public place, the restaurant you're celebrating in, but you tune out his objections in favor of lightly caressing his hand with your thumb.  
  
Eventually, he gives in and returns the favor, grinning.

 

* * *

_zweiundzwanzig_

  
  
“O-Oye, brat...! Isn't once enough?” His protests have grown half-hearted over the time spent together, now more a force of habit than anything, really. You lean down and nuzzle your face into the crook of his flushed neck, the various hickies left upon his otherwise flawless skin briefly catching your eye, your sweaty and heated torsos pressing together as your body falls slack against his.  
  
“I've already told you, I can never get enough of you,” you murmur, earning a huff in annoyance.  
  
“...Fine, but only because it's your birthday! And let me rest up a bit.”  
  


* * *

_Alles Gute zum Geburtstag_

  
  
A long time ago, as a child, you believed the best gift was having your parents and friends surrounding you on your special day; then, it was freedom from the shackles they bound you with; the gift of the sensation of feeling somehow topped even that.  
  
But here, now, as you're stirred from sleep by gentle kisses peppered all over your face, arms wrapped tightly around you and noses bumping together, your eyes meet his hazel and you're taken back by the sheer warmth and love reflecting in them, matched only by his smile. “Good morning, birthday boy.”  
  
And there's not a doubt in your mind that none of those previous gifts could even hold a candle to this moment.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Our favorite German brat deserves the world. :3c
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated!!


End file.
